And that’s when he saw her––Jeanette. 

She was wearing a black tank-top, black low-cut jeans and Saucony running shoes, bounding up the steps of the hotel with a black mutt on a green leash, a lab-golden retriever mix, loaded with canine charisma.  Evan was immediately struck by their similarities––the dog and the woman––lean and muscular with dark, shiny hair and smart, brown eyes, alert for play.

Evan dropped his cigarette into an empty Perrier bottle.  The ember sizzled as it hit bottom, and he said: “Great dog.”

“If you find me I’m lost...” she said, walking toward him.  “It was scribbled on his collar when I rescued this beauty-boy from the freeway.”

The dog offered his paw; Evan accepted it, feeling the warmth of the rough paw-pad against his palm. 

“Abe doesn’t trust most men.” 

“Honest Abe?”

“Exactly.  He knows you’re a dog-person.”

“My golden, golden retriever…fifteen years.  He was my best friend.”  Evan relinquished the dog’s paw.  “Yesterday, he...”

She sat on the bench beside him.

“He died.”

She put her arms around him.

“When he died I.  I wasn’t with him.”  Then Evan––he tried not to––cried into her shoulder, a shoulder that smelled of lavender and suntan lotion, and sweat at its absolute best; a shoulder soft against his mouth.